


Hotrod

by wickedorin



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Gen, M/M, Stripper!AU, because stripper!AU, not really much going on here sorry folks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-15
Updated: 2016-03-15
Packaged: 2018-05-26 23:14:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,232
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6259957
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wickedorin/pseuds/wickedorin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Intelligent, proper Ignis. Always working, doing his duty, following his own rules to the letter; crisp, clean, intensely professional Ignis. That was him, without fail.  (Yes, I know the game hasn't even been released yet, but we need more crack in this fandom.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hotrod

**Author's Note:**

> This just kind of… happened. [I would like to blame](http://inevitablesurrender.tumblr.com/post/136569812955/twistedthroughtime-inevitablesurrender) [gigglingcactus](https://tmblr.co/m4xQw4C_Md1f6497WRql5Pg) and [twistedthroughtime](https://tmblr.co/mLqQwR4EqmcRbtsUH-3dy8A) for inspiration, but I know that in my nonexistent heart of hearts, I’m just this sort of person.

Intelligent, proper Ignis. Always working, doing his duty, following his own rules to the letter; crisp, clean, intensely professional Ignis. That was him, without fail.  
  
Save every other Saturday night. When the Ballzout Bar had its Ballzin Night, when the “unprofessional dancers” had their opportunity to shine… he became _Hotrod_. And Hotrod was anything but exceptionally _proper_.

Well, a little bit. He acted the part, which was to say that he was very much himself when he strutted onto the stage in a fine pinstripe suit, looking every bit as though he were going to introduce a lecture when he stopped in the center of the stage and adjusted his glasses. It was all the more surprising to his audience when he simply started by peeling off those gloves, tugging first at each finger while very casually starting to inform the audience that he’d seen better crowds. Oh, antagonizing them really worked in his favor; as did finally pulling the gloves off with his teeth, throwing the cheap things into the audience afterward.  
  
And then the music started. Low, pulsing, something that matched his heartbeat, something he could _sway_ to once he started taking that suit jacket off. He’d learned from the best, really; the prince was a tease and the gunner was a brat, and mixing a bit of each into his routine worked wonders for crowd attention. He feasted on those gazes, adored the way the audience jeers died down when he started unbuttoning his shirt, openly grinning if only subtly. They all wanted to see.  
  
He heckled the audience a bit then, teased them about being perfectly obedient when they thought they were going to get a reward. The first time he’d done it, he’d surprised himself and everyone else, but it had become a signature move of his: _leaping_ onto the center pole and catching it with his thighs, the fabric of his suit pants just slick enough to allow him to turn easily but not slide down. It was then that he finally rid himself of his shirt, bare from the waist up and still turning, slowly, coming to a stop. That was when he took firm hold of the pole with both hands and _purred_ like he’d gotten his grasp on something else, back arching, gaining the attention of everyone in the room. Then, holding himself up by his hands and arms, he started _humping_ that pole openly, momentarily abandoning all pretense of propriety, moaning low and loud, closed eyes and opened mouth, actually getting off without getting himself _quite_ to the point of no return.  
  
It was all part of the act to need a moment to breathe, to pant loudly, running a hand through his hair and openly apologizing for his momentary lack of decorum. And that point, he stood on visibly shaky legs; then drew the crowd’s attention by unbuckling and removing his belt, sliding it out of belt loops and dropping it onto the floor. Such a painfully slow process, getting his pants unbuttoned, opened, using that time to catch his breath before he slid the smooth material down his legs. He’d heard it from a member of the crowd before: somehow he could make sock garters _sexy_.  
  
Stepping out of the pants and kicking them aside, all that was left was a pair of tightly fitting briefs with flame patterns on them. It was where his act ended, where all of the amateur acts stopped, and that was when the announcer thanked them for their participation and made some kind of ridiculous attempt at banter. That night in particular was no different, lights going low as he bent to gather his clothes and leave the stage, while over the PA system was announced, “The hottest of rods, am I right ladies?”  
  
Past that point, Ignis paid little attention. He was done, the night was over… but he heard _something_ concerning over the rest of the crowd. He knew he’d heard it; an unmistakable voice in the back clearly shouting, “None of _them_ have ever seen it! Ha!”  
  
Perhaps embarrassment should have been his initial reaction. Instead, it was simply _rage_. Abandoning his clothes by the edge of the stage, daggers appearing in his hands with the sort of speed that was rarely even seen in battle, Ignis (decidedly not Hotrod at that point) stomped his way through the curtain, then used the elevated stage platform as a leaping off point so that he could get to the back of the room faster. He _knew_ that voice. He was going to _eliminate_ that voice.  
  
Sure enough, a high-pitched scream of terror was just as familiar as the voice itself before a certain recognizably-dressed individual scrambled to run out the doors. Ignis ignored the startled sounds of the crowd, giving chase.  
  
Prompto was a damn good runner. It was almost unfortunate at that point, as far as Ignis was concerned; whereas the blond could take corners easily and use walls to his advantage, pushing off of them in order to keep his momentum going, the brunet was not as skilled. Not that it mattered entirely, as sheer emotion and adrenaline carried him onward, closing the gap–  
  
Until Prompto had made one last wrong turn, coming to a dead end alley with smooth walls and no easy way out. Well. Oops. Smiling nervously, he turned toward the sliding footsteps behind him. Much as he really wanted to laugh at Ignis in nothing but those fucking fire undies, the knives kind of… took the humor away. “Uh. I can explain?”  
  
“That sounds like a question.” The brunet pointed out, holding himself as though he were still fully dressed, as proper and ready for battle as ever. “I am looking for an _answer_. Did you follow me?”  
  
Licking his lips was an unconscious sign of uncertain fear, Prompto took one tiny step backward. “Uh. Kinda. I mean, I really didn’t mean to, but. You were there, so.”  
  
Ignis sighed sharply. “I was a fool to think I could be secretive or _private_ about anything with the lot of you.”  
  
“Hey.” The blond didn’t know why that felt like a personal attack, but that was how he took it. “You think I don’t know about that place already? Are you serious? And where do you think the big guy goes off to sometimes?”  
  
Even Gladiolus knew about the club? The knives disappeared from his hands with another long, soft sigh. “I doubt he’s fool enough to perform.”  
  
“Well, not yet.” There was a touch of hopefulness in not being slaughtered right away in his voice. “But he won’t be able to resist when I tell him–”  
  
The knives may have been put away, but there was still a murderous edge in Ignis’ voice. “You’re not telling him. Anything.”  
  
The slightest bit of hurt appeared in that bright blue gaze. “Aw, Iggy, c'mon. We all–”  
  
“Not a word.” He couldn’t even begin to explain how embarrassing it was that _one_ of his comrades knew, had seen him, but to have the rest of them aware… “Not a _single_ word.”  
  
Prompto looked down at the ground for a moment. Thinking. Then a tiny little grin came to his face, glancing back up again. “Okay, but. It’ll cost ya.”  
  
That… did not sound promising. “Oh?”  
  
The blond laid his terms out easily. “I get a private lap dance from _Hotrod_.”


End file.
